


The Shards of My Beautiful Wreckage.

by akaatsuki



Category: Ensemble Stars! (Video Game)
Genre: Bittersweet, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, also ft. one of my three hc cats for izumi, he/him pronouns for arashi but dw he's not cis he's genderfluid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-17 20:52:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13667064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akaatsuki/pseuds/akaatsuki
Summary: “He will be okay,” Arashi murmurs softly, not only for her, but for himself, as well. “He always is.”“And what happens when he isn’t?” she replies in a voice so soft that the atmosphere steals it from her, leaving her noiseless, with nothing to emphasize her question but her pitiable, desperate glance upwards. Arashi purses his lips, clenches his teeth out of sight, and tries to come up with an answer that he knows is not there.





	The Shards of My Beautiful Wreckage.

**Author's Note:**

> content warning for an implied eating disorder.
> 
> hc appearance for izumi's mother, with name unspecified. 
> 
> miyuki is a maine coon and she is one Big Girl. 
> 
> araizu is good.

In the dead of the night, when all is silent and even the hushed songs of the cicadas comes to their end, somebody stirs. It is not a movement that disturbs the tranquility of the evening, but merely co-exists alongside of it, with soft, slow motions that are heard by no one but the painted walls. He, who has awoken long before the hours in which people are sprightly and bustling, and long past the hour in which they all lied their heads to rest, moves with such soft grace that one might mistake his slender figure for that of an apparition, gliding gently through the night. His hand reaches absently outward from his body, seeking the support of the flat surface of the wall, and his open palm slides across it as he walks with quiet footsteps, steadily, and his fingertips trail off of the edge of a corner.

For several moments, he halts in his steps, staring into the emptiness of the room he’d entered, as if he were a train car bound by the path of his rail, and his hand, now supported by nothing but the air, dictated that he could not go any further. But after that short few moments of time he took another step forward, as if testing his limits, and then, upon finding that it was possible, he continued onward, the tiled floor chilling his feet through the fabric of his socks. He did not bother to turn on the lights, but rather, he preferred to envelope himself in the cold darkness, as if he had no desire to look upon himself nor any of the things around him. The house is silent, and not a thing, inanimate or not, stirs, until he does.

His stomach lurches, betraying him, and spreading an abrupt feeling of numbness throughout his body. It surges through him, down his arms and to his fingertips, leaving the burning sensation of pins and needles in its wake. Nausea, a giant wave that rises high above him, crashes down upon him and drowns him in its depths, forcing him to his knees. The air is knocked out of his lungs as he falls to the floor, winding him, and the world spins momentarily, sparks tarnishing his vision--if he focused upon them, he would think that he were still comfortably in bed, dreaming to himself. What a horrible sensation it is, to have his body tear itself into fragments in some instinctive way to delay the inevitable! His systems stop communicating with each other, each desperate to try and support themselves so that they are not halted completely, and in their attempts, wind up causing more damage than they were trying to prevent. His lips, quivering, part so that he can gasp for breath, his hands trembling and knuckles losing their color as he grasps onto the porcelain, as though it were his last link to reality(and it was). His stomach lurches once more, dropping in on itself and his legs have gone numb, cold sweat runs past his brow, and the muscles in his shoulder tighten as his back curves stiffly.

And then, in a single moment, the silence of the night is shattered by a grueling, horrid retch that sears the inside of his throat and pulls him forwards.

Crying never makes it any easier to catch his breath--he _knows_ that it doesn't--but the impending feeling of doom that clutches onto his body without abandon makes it impossible to stem the tears that sting at the backs of his eyes. They pool and flood over his bottom lids and burn dark trails upon the pallor of his cheeks, and his already bated breath stutters into a choked cough that tumbles quickly into another attack of illness. He hardly has any relief so that he can attempt to catch his breath, and so he wheezes and chokes for air, chest heaving and shuddering with the effort, and every fiber of his being screaming to keep itself alive. Air is so easy to get, for it is all around him, waiting to be taken into his body--the torturous element of this moment, however, is that he cannot do something even as simple as breathe it in. It hangs just out of his reach, teasing and tormenting him, for if he could just spare a few seconds to take some of it in, things would perhaps be okay again. But he cannot. Instead, he can only gasp and retch and try over and over to sustain himself before he suffocates, and each sharp inhale that he _does_ manage to take is greedily used up before he realizes that it had been there in the first place.

How difficult it is just to keep himself from losing consciousness then and there! It feels to him like a struggle for life--it always does--for if he cannot take in enough air, surely he will suffocate, won’t he? What a pitiful way it would be to die by his body’s own error! His trembling, shuddering form is broken beneath its own exertion, and it cries and begs for a relief that is far too distant to grasp onto. Have the walls gotten closer? They seem to be encasing him, crushing him, pushing inward upon his shoulders and threatening to crumple his already destroyed body. His tears are hot, burning his cheeks and dripping from the outline of his chin. As his episode progresses, something else stirs in the now shattered silence of the night. He cannot hear over his own struggle—though, even if he _were_ quiet, he would still not hear the gracious, light steps that come down the hallway, retracing his own steps. Within moments, somebody else is standing in the doorway of the bathroom, eyes immediately setting themselves upon the sagged, broken figure of the one knelt miserably upon the floor. He is at his side within moments, kneeling to the same height and gently placing his gentle, steady hands upon those shuddering shoulders, and rubbing them as if he were trying to warm him.

“Izumi-chan?” he whispers softly, as if, were his voice too strong or loud in volume, it might cause further damage to him.

Izumi shivers, and his shoulders tense visibly as Arashi tucks a portion of his unruly hair behind his ear with careful fingertips. As if the presence of the other had somehow consoled and satisfied his body, there is a momentary relief in which Izumi can retake some of the air he lost in shuddering, ragged breaths. However, the relapse comes all too quickly, and he lurches forward abruptly once more, something between a desperate sob and a choked cough leaving him as he does. Arashi’s hand gently glides along his back while the other rests upon one of his shoulders, his touches feather-light and comforting as he waits at his side, waiting for this to pass once more, as all of the other episodes had.

As the other’s violent instances of sickness begin to grow less and less, leaving him much more time for respite, another person’s figure appears within the frame of the door. Their hand reaches out, slowly, towards the shape of the light switch, pausing, as if afraid for what sight will lie before them once it is flicked, and then proceeds. Arashi’s hands continue to console Izumi with their benign nature, but his eyes glance upwards so that he can meet the gaze of the one looking down upon the two. She is a short but shapely woman, well into her mid-life years, and yet still preserving such a timeless beauty that one might mistake her for a woman twenty years younger. Her long, silky, silver hair is tied loosely into a low ponytail, tossed in front of her shoulder and still looking rather neat and orderly for someone who had, assumedly, just been woken up in the middle of the night. Her eyes are the same soft, luminous azure that he is so accustomed to seeing, and they look upon the scene before her with an ineffable sadness settling within their color. The despairing expression that she wears tightens his chest and squeezes his heart, and he gives her a soft, reassuring smile, as if to try and ease some of her anxiety.

She does not return the gesture.

“ _Ma--Mama,_ ” Izumi chokes out, voice hoarse and stumbling over itself, and before Arashi has the time to blink, the woman throws herself into the room, propelled by the force of a thousand tempests blowing at her back. She kneels at his other side, gently pulling him from Arashi’s grasp so that she could gather his broken body in her arms, cheek pressed against the softness of his hair, a tame hand resting comfortingly upon the back of his head. Arashi watches them, watching how Izumi collapses against her in his exhaustion, and feels how the intense warmth of her maternal love floods over the cold, stale air of the scene. The two remain there, as if trying to piece together the shards of the once tranquil, undisturbed night--until she finally lifts her head, and looks towards Arashi.

“…Izumi, dear,” she says softly to him, “go and change your shirt, okay? Arashi-chan and I will go and make some tea.”

“Don’ want any,” he mutters, but begins to peel himself from her embrace so that he can get back onto his feet(with Arashi’s help).

“We’d love some,” Arashi smiles at her as he lifts Izumi to his feet, taking caution to measure whether or not the other would be able to stand on his own or not. When Izumi insists that he can make the walk himself and that he doesn’t need anybody to accompany him, Arashi reluctantly allows him to, stifling a small laugh at the other’s ridiculous determination.

And so the silence again falls upon the scene as her and Arashi, solemnly, find themselves wandering along the hallway, like lost spirits roaming for some semblance of their home. Every so often Arashi has half the mind to try and initiate some form of conversation between the two, but when he catches a glance at her expression, he ultimately decides against it; for her eyes are downcast, pooled with some crushing melancholy that drags her entire weight behind her, lips pulled thinly together, as if sewed shut. Words of comfort or consolation fall dead upon the tip of Arashi’s tongue, for he can’t quite come up with anything that he deems sufficient enough to try and ease the burden placed upon the shoulders of a grieving mother. The noiseless tranquility of the night that has creeped back upon them is worlds away from what it had been beforehand, and discomfort places itself like pins and needles upon the back of his neck as they meander into the living room. It feels much bigger than it usually does, and unwelcoming, for the comfortable furniture will provide no relief if the two of them are sitting so rigidly. Even so, they sit together upon the familiar couch(after she runs a kettle of water for the tea), side-by-side, backs erect and knees pressed together, tension heavy and thick between their low gazes. Arashi, without any words, places a gentle palm upon the back of her hand, clasping it warmly, to which she does not look at him, but only squeezes in return to show that she is still present.

“It’s hard,” she whispers after a moment, brows knitted and lips quivering, and Arashi can see, as he looks towards her, that her eyes have grown misty. “It’s so _hard_.”

He moves then, slowly, so that he can pull her to his chest, a tender embrace that she melts hesitantly into, a silent sob falling from her lips that Arashi does not comment on. Just as she had gathered her son into her arms, he does the same for her now, supporting the cracked foundation that threatens to give way when she leaves herself to bear the weight alone. It is so typical of him to be able to offer words of comfort to anybody who is in need of them, and so he finds it unsettling how blank his mind is, and how flatly his tongue rests upon the bottom of his mouth. Perhaps it is because they are both suffering(though Arashi does not show it, for he must be strong enough to support the both of them) that he cannot quite finds words to console her that might also console himself. She, however, knows well of this pain, and does not ask of anything from him; his company, his embrace, and his support is far more than she could ask for, and her silent gratitude speaks volumes when compared to the silence of the room around them.

“He will be okay,” Arashi murmurs softly, not only for her, but for himself, as well. “He always is.”

“And what happens when he isn’t?” she replies in a voice so soft that the atmosphere steals it from her, leaving her noiseless, with nothing to emphasize her question but her pitiable, desperate glance upwards. Arashi purses his lips, clenches his teeth out of sight, and tries to come up with an answer that he knows is not there.

“The tea’s ready,” Izumi informs as he drifts calmly into the room at the same time that the silence is shattered by the piercing sound of the kettle from the stove. The two awaiting his arrival upon the couch gradually float away from each other after lingering just one moment longer, and she rises to her feet so that she can turn and flee to the empty kitchen. Arashi looks towards him as he makes his way quietly around the shape of the couch, and falls gracefully across Arashi’s lap, to which the other cannot help but let go of a soft, much-needed smile.

“You’re wearing the pajamas that your mother bought for you,” Arashi laughs, fingers threading through Izumi’s hair as the other’s head rests upon his lap, eyes fluttered shut in a state of exhaustion more-so than relaxation. Miyuki, who, though she is quite literally the size of Izumi himself, managed to slip into the room unnoticed, hops onto the couch and drapes herself across the length of her beloved’s body, looking far more like a blanket than she looks a cat. Arashi’s free hand strokes her snow-white coat.

“Mm,” Izumi hums in confirmation, response delayed, and his arms move so that he can let Miyuki know that her presence is known. “It’s not like I can wear the stuff that _you_ bought for me when she’s here.”

Arashi laughs, and as though summoned by talks of secrets kept from her, his mother returns, holding a pretty plate of porcelain teacups and a tall pot. Seeing that Arashi had been smiling, along with the sight of Izumi and Miyuki so comfortable together, she cannot help but smile as well, and places the plate upon the coffee table before sitting down on the opposite side of Arashi(for Izumi’s legs and Miyuki’s body took up the other side). Delicately, she begins to pour three cups for the three of them, and murmurs a hushed apology to Miyuki for not bringing her anything as well. Miyuki seems content enough to be with Izumi.

“Wear _what_ , now?” she inquires with a teasing smile upon her lips, “Arashi-chan, you’re buying him sets of lingerie, aren’t you? I know that you are!”

She picks up a cup for herself, blows upon it to cool it, and shakes her head in disapproval at the concept.

“Oh, he’s too young, I say! Why, _I_ didn’t model _my_ first set until I was…”

Her voice trails off as the realization settles upon her mind, and she glances at where Izumi lies, and at the look that Arashi gives her, and brings her slender fingertips to rest upon her lips.

“Oh, dear. You _are_ almost nineteen now, aren’t you?” she marvels, as though until this moment, she’d had no idea of just how many years had passed her by. Shaking her head, she cries, “it’s all too fast! Oh, Arashi-chan, you’ll be marrying him soon, won’t you!?”

Izumi groans indignantly at this, turning over onto his side so that he was now facing away from Arashi, Miyuki momentarily startled by the sudden change in position. Both Arashi and his mother laugh at this, and Arashi reaches out to retrieve the cup that had been poured for him, lifting it to his lips to blow upon it. There’s a brief silence that settles between them all--the tranquil, soothing, comforting kind of silence that comes only with the company of loved ones, whose presence holds meaning beyond what words might convey. And so the night has been restored in all of its serenity, and perhaps even made grander now, for the reason that they had all been awoken in the first place begins to steadily slip from their occupied minds. Arashi’s fingers gently stroke and thread through Izumi’s silky hair for a short while longer after he had set down his cup, and then he withdraws them to pick the only teacup remaining on the plate that had not yet been claimed. He holds it at chest height, clearly not intending to drink it himself, and looks down upon Izumi, who turns wordlessly to return the stare, no apparent meaning behind it other than to simply look at him.

“Will you be having a cup, Izumi-chan?” he offers hopefully, and the soft lavender color of his irises seem to glimmer in the darkness of the room, even though there is no light shining upon them. They hold an innumerable collection of promises that Izumi cannot hope to know in their entirety. “Your mother always makes such wonderful tea, don’t you think? It’ll warm you right up.”

Izumi stares aimlessly up at the two, no clear answer visible in his gaze just yet. His hands absently stroke the coat of Miyuki, who purrs graciously at the attention--the only sound to fill the room. And then, he lifts himself slowly from Arashi’s lap(much to Miyuki’s dismay), sitting upright with a straightened back, stretching a bit, before turning in their direction, his legs joining the other two pairs as they hang over the edge of the cushioning. His hands(no longer trembling in despair) reach out to accept the cup offered to him, pulling it closer to him and up to his lips, eyes soft with some distant, brilliant emotion encased behind their color. He blows once, twice, and watches the tea swirl in its cup, as if mesmerized by the pattern. The surface trembled with his breath, and though disturbed by his presence, it morphed into a beautiful, elegant design that enraptured his attention and drew him into its embrace.

“I’ll have a cup,” he declares airily, glancing up at them, “but it’s not cold in here.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! kudos/comments are greatly appreciated! 
> 
> find me on twitter @daawnmaiden.


End file.
